Rainy Day
by TheBeautifulStuff
Summary: Brief story. Napoleon's thoughts following Waverly's resignation.


In New York, when it rained, it rained like it meant business. There was none of this misting stuff, or even the sort of shower children could have fun in. No, it was cold, often dirty, and could stain a suit if one wasn't careful. It poured down on uncaring people going about their jobs as if there was no tomorrow, no reason to look up at the change of atmosphere. It poured on rich and poor alike, chilling souls and sapping spirits.

The man moved away from his office window and seated himself at this desk, staring at the file in front of him labelled "resignation." Even a year ago, it had not been a possibility, never even crossed his mind. Something about today, though, made it so much more tempting. Perhaps the rain and the cold settling into bones broken once too often was making the decision for him.

UNCLE Agent Napoleon Solo, Number one, Section one. It was too much to stomach. He had wanted to...what? Stay a field agent the rest of his life? Illya had moved on some time ago after that major accident, to Vanya, and Napoleon had stayed here with the organization.

Perhaps that was where the trouble, the doubt, had begun. When one half of a partnership, a dedicated team that could take on anything THRUSH could dish out, had simply left, what was the other half to do?

The fact of the matter was Waverly was retiring, and Napoleon was the best man for the job to take his place. But when the metal met the meat, Napoleon knew he could not manage the network command anywhere near as well as his mentor and friend. There were things he couldn't say, too.

Goddamnit, he missed Illya. As much as the enigmatic Russian had frustrated him and deliberately provoked him at times, he had also been the best confidant and most loyal friend. Sometimes Napoleon wondered if he had ever wanted something more, but then would think of the women Illya had managed to charm over the years, and relaxed back again.

He finally found his voice. "No, sir. I'm sorry. I cannot willingly take your place."

The old lion regarded him calmly. "Mr. Solo, I wouldn't ask if I thought you couldn't survive the job. But you've got more than enough gumption, and Lord knows you have the know-how." He paused, surveying the younger man as if for the first time. "You can't be a field agent past forty, and we've been pushing that rule for you for years now. Look at yourself."

It didn't make it easier that Waverly was right, but Napoleon knew he had to press the issue. "Sir, that's not why. I've-" he hesitated. How to put this? "It's been—difficult—since-"

Since Illya left.

Since Illya resigned.

Since Illya broke his heart.

Wise old eyes twinkled shrewdly. "Perhaps you'd like some time to think. There's a new department store opening across the street. You might find some enlightenment there."

A department store? How the hell would that help? Napoleon glanced at him sharply, but the old man gave nothing away, returning his gaze amiably. "Do hurry along, Mr. Solo. I have much to do."

The agent nodded slowly before grabbing his overcoat and returning his badge. "No rush. Just a half hour or so might clear your head."

The rain still hadn't cleared up. With a sigh, Napoleon dodged the worst of the puddles. It looked as if the department store wasn't even open yet, but there was no reason to doubt Waverly. Tentatively, he pushed open the door.

A scene of construction met his eyes. Three men were nailing a counter together; another few were painting the back wall. Some women were taking measurements of the windows. In the center of the chaos, almost acting as ringmaster, was a short man, blond hair now streaked with gray, standing on a tall stool. He held up his designs and snapped orders, his peons hurrying to do as he commanded.

Napoleon simply stared. The old man must have employed countless tracking devices. Or perhaps, this was his plan all along.

Shedding his soaked overcoat, he made his way towards the man. "Excuse me. I'm looking for Illya Nicovetch Kuryakin. Is he here?"

The man waved a hand over his shoulder vaguely. " Kuraykin? Sounds familiar. I am Vanya. I don't need to deal with you. Have someone take down your name if you believe your Kuryakin is here."

Napoleon lost his patience in a moment. "Illya, it's me, Napoleon Solo. Your partner. Your friend." He added quietly, "Your biggest fan."

Illya almost lost his balance on the stool, but regained it almost immediately, and climbed down. "Napoleon? What in God's name are you doing here?"

Napoleon jerked a thumb backwards. "Mission control."

The smaller man smiled. "Please, sit with me. Let us discuss the way of things."

After three hours of things being said that had been left unsaid, Napoleon finally came around to the point of his business. "Waverly wants me to take over, and I can't, Illya."

The Russian propped his chin on his hand, puzzled. "Why not? You managed number one section two beautifully."

Napoleon shrugged, looking at his folded hands. "Never had the same kind of relationship with another agent that I did with you. I can't work as an agent without a partner like you."

Illya smiled. "If that is the reason you came, to win me back to the cloak and dagger side of things, I'm afraid we do not have the same agendas anymore, my friend. I have work to do. This is the fifth store in New York alone that I have designed."

Napoleon nodded. "I'll just tell Waverly then. Maybe I'll find a different job, something with less chance of gunshot wounds."

"Fashion design worked for me."  
The American stood and stretched, getting the kinks out of his back. "I can see what my decision is, then. Not fashion, though."

Several years later, after selling many computers, Napoleon was glad he'd kept his communicator. After all, who REALLY wanted to give up the agency?


End file.
